Assumptions
by Ancalime8301
Summary: You know what they say about assuming... and even Holmes can interpret the facts wrongly.


Rating: R  
Wordcount: 3,443  
Summary: You know what they say about assuming... and even Holmes can interpret the facts wrongly.

Written for the shkinkmeme prompt:_ Holmes and watson get it on when drunk. The next morning holmes realises what he's done and flees in horror, convinced he's just destroyed the friendship, as well as essentially raped Watson because while they were both inebriated, Holmes refuses to accept the fact that he has less than perfect control at any time._  
_Watson hunts him down and finds holmes half-starved, stressed and falling apart. Turns out he wasn't so drunk as to be taken advantage of, merely enough to finally loosen up and do something he's wanted to for years._

Also fills the prompt: _Holmes does something that makes Watson whisper "Norbury" in his ear._

* * *

_Assumptions_

Returning to consciousness was painful but necessary. Holmes groaned as he tried to remember what he could possibly have done that would warrant such a blinding headache, and attempted to locate his limbs. He shifted, and froze when he felt something move underneath his right arm.

Venturing to open his eyes, he nearly cried out in surprise to find Watson sleeping next to him -well, more like under him, as he was draped in a most familiar manner over the good doctor. And they were both naked. Holmes clenched his eyes closed, then opened them again, certain that this must be a figment of his imagination. But there Watson remained, peaceful in slumber, his hand resting on Holmes' arm.

Holmes drew back, sitting up, and realized from the way his skin in certain areas pulled away from Watson's that they'd had . . . relations. Quite intimate ones. One shaking hand passed over the sticky remnant on his lower abdomen and ghosted over his cock, still slightly slick with whatever he had used for lubricant. His eyes widened in horror, and he couldn't stop his hand from reaching between Watson's parted thighs to feel . . .

He shuddered. He'd taken Watson, had penetrative sex with him.

Holmes stumbled away from the bed, grabbing what clothes were in reach and dashed to the bathing room to clean himself and try to remember what happened.

He was trembling as he washed himself, washed away the evidence of what he'd done, and tried to rein in his whirling thoughts. They had been drinking, that much was certain. A vague memory of going to a pub with a group of Inspectors drifted through his mind; yes, that was it. They had been treated to round after round, and finally staggered home quite intoxicated. Watson stumbled on the threshold, and Holmes tried to catch him, but they both fell to the floor, Watson atop Holmes.

The rest of the night was nothing more than a sense of gratification and release. The implication was alarming.

That he had appreciated the merits of his fellow lodger was true enough, but he'd been extremely careful not to let Watson have any indication of his unwholesome inclinations. Watson did not bend his eye that way, and would no doubt be disturbed to learn of the fantasies entertained by Holmes. But evidently Holmes had slipped, and let the inebriation serve as an excuse to accost his dear friend.

He stole back to his room -the scene of the crime- and was relieved to find Watson still asleep. Closer examination revealed numerous bite marks on Watson that could only have come from him, and the picture seemed to grow clearer in his mind. Watson had resisted, then, and Holmes had bitten him to keep him complaisant.

He had visited the worst indignities on his dearest, and only, friend. How could he ever face Watson again? Would Watson ever forgive him?

He nervously stuffed his pipe and paced in the sitting room, trying to determine how to maintain their agreeable arrangement at Baker Street in light of his egregious act. No solution was to be found. No reasonable person -and Watson was the epitome of that type- would be able to live with one who had assaulted them in such a fashion. Remaining friends with such a person was also quite out of the question.

When he heard the sound of Watson shifting as if to rise, he turned tail and fled into the cold December morning, forgetting even to take a coat or hat.

.

Holmes spent three days at his nearest bolt-hole, after stopping along the way to buy more tobacco, analyzing every angle of what he could remember of that night, and becoming ever more convinced that he had behaved in a way deserving of imprisonment. He ventured out on occasion, always in disguise, and tried to catch a glimpse of Watson -was he angry? Was he despondent? But it seemed he was sheltering indoors from the weather, which was admittedly quite cold and wet.

Realizing there was a good chance Watson would eventually come looking for him, Holmes made a withdrawal from his bank -having left with only the money in his pockets, which was little more than spare change- and removed to one of the bolt-holes that Watson didn't know about. Here he remained for some time, spending a good deal of time in the pubs in disguise, drinking without allowing himself to become drunk and cultivating some potentially useful ties, should any case require information from that quarter.

Provided, of course, that he ever worked another case again. It may be that his next encounter with the law will put him squarely on the wrong side of it.

This occupation quickly grew dull, though he persisted in it for a good while for lack of any more suitable pursuits. Being unable to visit any of his usual haunts was quite trying, but he managed to find an establishment that holds boxing matches on the weekends, and he entered his name for the next one, held in three days' time.

The morning of the match, Holmes gave in to a yearning to stop by Baker Street, and he donned the disguise of an old bookseller for the trek. He was just passing opposite the front door when Mrs. Hudson opened it and conversed with a young lady on the step. He crept closer to listen.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but Mr. Holmes has taken a holiday for his health," he heard Mrs. Hudson say. So they weren't publicizing his disappearance, then. He'd suspected as much from the lack of any word in the papers he'd glimpsed in the gutters, but the confirmation was quite useful.

The door closed firmly, swinging the wreath upon it. Holmes stared at the wreath disbelievingly. Was it truly near Christmas already?

Shaking this thought from his mind, his eyes scanned the windows for any sign of Watson, but there was none. He remained across the street a while longer, and just as he was turning away, the door opened and Watson emerged. He looked thinner, and his face was pinched with strain. 'So this is what my deed has wrought,' Holmes thought sorrowfully.

Watson hailed a cab and directed it to Scotland Yard. Holmes hailed another cab and followed him. The doorman at the Yard tipped his hat to Watson, who acknowledged him in the briefest fashion before striding purposefully inside.

Holmes waited outside curiously, to see what sort of consultation this might be. Watson emerged far too quickly for it to be about any new matter -an update on an existing case, then, though they didn't have any open cases when Holmes left. Was Watson consulting with Scotland Yard on his own merits now?

Lurking close enough to Watson's cab to hear the next address given was for the Diogenes. Holmes frowned, realizing what Watson's errands were about: they were looking for him, and Watson had even enlisted Mycroft's assistance. He briefly wondered what his brother thought of what he'd done to Watson -he had to know, for Watson would surely have told him why they were hunting his brother so painstakingly.

He should have foreseen such an event. He ought to have withdrawn a good deal more money from the bank when he'd gone, for now his accounts were certainly being watched, if they weren't frozen entirely. There were few better ways to locate a man than by placing a watch on his money. He would need to be far more miserly. And he would need to move to another lodging, one that was not rented to him, since a watch on his money meant the rents would be traced and his bolt-holes located.

Holmes' last extravagance was the cab ride back to his current abode, for the walk there from Scotland Yard was too long for him to manage in the guise of the old bookseller -he was too cramped and his persona too aged for such an exertion to be attempted.

He quickly shed his guise and packed his meager belongings, then set out in search of a new room. He found it in a seedy boarding house just in time to prepare himself for the match, which was to occur not far away.

The match was unremarkable in that it followed the pattern of every other one he had fought in. He was paired with a larger opponent, who got cocky and underestimated him, and he quickly defeated his opponent. It was almost disappointing how little of a challenge it was. The prize money was worth the effort, however, in light of his financial situation, and Holmes retired to consider his current predicament.

If he continued to fight in -and win- the matches, he could make everything work. The rent would take the majority of the prize money each week, but he should have enough for the absolute essentials if he was careful. It was a good thing he did not rely on three regular meals daily; he couldn't afford it.

The next and more difficult problem was how to fill his waking hours, as the lack of funds was a definite hindrance. Remaining cooped up in the tiny, shabby room was not an option, so he went walking. It felt like he crossed London from one side to the other and back again in the course of the week, but it was useful to update his mental map of the city. The only problem was that walking did not require much concentration, and it grew dull after a while to deduce the particulars of each passerby's occupation and home life when there was no one to impress with his observations.

Which inevitably led to thoughts of Watson and what he'd done to him. He couldn't escape it. No matter where he went, what he did, Holmes was somehow reminded of his guilt concerning Watson. It followed him like a bloodhound.

He always returned from his meanderings in time for dinner, which was supplied as part of the fee for the rooms. The food was quite terrible, and made him think longingly of Mrs. Hudson's cooking. But he ate, as he could get little else.

In the evenings, he considered other things he might do to earn his living, since he couldn't return to investigative work. There were many possibilities, of course, but the majority required leaving London, and . . . he couldn't fathom leaving, even for a time. He would have to make do.

At long last it was the week-end and the day of the next boxing match. He skipped that evening's meal in preparation (the food sat like a lump of coal in his stomach for hours after eating, and that was the last thing he needed), and was ready and waiting when the time came.

This match started out like the previous one, and he easily defeated his first two opponents. The third opponent was more his size and just as quick on his feet; a true challenge. One that he was not fit to meet. The ducking and weaving necessary to dodge the relentless fists of his adversary made him dizzy, and he stumbled. It was over then, the blows falling thick and fast, and he lost consciousness after a particularly fierce blow to the face.

The proprietor ensured he made it back to his room afterward, but it didn't matter. Losing meant he couldn't pay for the room any longer.

.

Watson insisted on accompanying Lestrade to follow a lead that Holmes had been seen in a disreputable part of town four days earlier. It had come out in the interrogation of a man caught picking pockets, who had been quite keen to tell that he'd needed the money after he lost a gamble on this clever skinny boxer who'd gotten himself knocked out Saturday night.

It was several hours of going from one ramshackle boarding house to another, Watson's heart hurting that Holmes had ended up in a place like this, before a proprietress admitted, "Yeah, I had a fella here that looked like that."

"Had?" Lestrade questioned.

"Kicked 'im out two days ago. Couldn't pay no more."

They tipped their hats to her and anxiously conferred in the street. Lestrade was not optimistic, for if Holmes had taken to the streets, they would never be able to find him. Watson was afraid Lestrade was right, but tried desperately to think about it like Holmes would. One brief thought, but perhaps it was enough . . . "The list of addresses Mycroft gave you. Which is closest to here?"

His heart was in his throat as they hurried to the nearest of Holmes' bolt-holes. Lestrade stopped outside to converse with the plainclothes officer assigned to watch the building for Holmes, but Watson hurried inside. Third door on the left, Lestrade said, and Watson approached with cautious haste.

The room was sparse, the only furnishings a rickety bed and a washstand that leaned to one side, and a small trunk sat at the end of the bed. Watson was kneeling beside the bed in an instant, touching the still face of his friend. He wondered if the tattered clothes were part of a disguise, or if Holmes had truly sunk so low.

Holmes' eyelids fluttered and opened, his eyes dull and not quite focused. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut. "Watson?" he croaked.

"Yes, I'm here," Watson assured, keeping his hand on Holmes' cheek while moving the other to the pulse in his neck.

"Why?"

"I've been worried sick about you!" After the long weeks of fear and worry, the infuriating man had to ask why he'd come looking for him? For all his brilliance, he could be so blind. But he obviously was not entirely well; Watson would have to wait for the explanations. "I would ask where you've been and why, but I think we ought to get you home first. Can you stand?"

"I don't know." He managed to sit, at least, and Watson carefully helped him gain his feet. He swayed with dizziness, but remained upright so long as one of his arms was slung over Watson's shoulders.

Walking proved to be another matter entirely, and after only a couple of steps Holmes' knees buckled and he collapsed in a faint. Watson kept his grip on him so he would not fall completely, and, desperate to get him back to Baker Street, stooped and tucked his arm beneath his knees and tried to lift him. It was all too easy, and Watson's stomach knotted at what it implied.

Holmes didn't fully regain consciousness until they were back in their rooms and he was being placed on the settee. Watson was arranging him in a comfortable position and tersely giving commands to Mrs. Hudson, who was hovering anxiously behind him. When Mrs. Hudson left, Watson poured a glass of water and helped Holmes take small sips.

"Mrs. Hudson is getting some broth, and I'm going to get a bath ready for you. Will you be all right here for a few minutes?"

Holmes nodded weakly, his mind spinning. He couldn't . . . his thoughts were such a muddle . . . there was something . . . he couldn't find it anymore. When Watson returned, he helped him drink a few sips again; the broth felt like fire down his throat and into his belly, but it settled warm and gentle, and a hunger he hadn't been aware of was eased.

He didn't want to move, didn't have the energy to move, but Watson insisted he would feel better after a bath. He was probably right. So he did his best to help Watson get him to the bathing room, though Watson slapped his hands away when he tried to help with his buttons.

Being submerged in the water was well worth the effort. He could not hold back a sigh of enjoyment, and Watson chuckled. Watson washed him thoroughly, carefully probing at the bruises and marks from the fights to determine the extent of his injuries, then turned his attention to his head. First, a comb for the worst of the tangles, then dousing and soaping and rinsing, then a finer-toothed comb to check for passengers. Somehow, Holmes had escaped bringing home any lice or fleas this time.

When he finally bundled Holmes into bed, Watson had him take a few more sips of broth and water, reassured that he probably wouldn't bring them up again. Holmes was hardly aware of his surroundings, slightly feverish, and so very weak, so Watson let him sleep after that and hoped his enviable recuperative powers would soon have him back to normal.

.

Holmes was startled to wake in his own bed, the light of full day filtering in the window. Then he had to stop and think about why he was startled to wake in his own bed in his own home, and it only took a moment for everything to crash down upon him. Right.

The appearance of Watson in his doorway was even more startling, and he watched his approach warily. "Good morning, Holmes," he said cheerfully. "Though for the rest of us it's afternoon. How are you feeling?"

Holmes stared at him, then blurted, "You don't look well."

Watson chuckled. "You haven't seen a mirror lately, I take it. But you're right. I've been worrying about you. You did disappear for several weeks without any hint of where you were or whether you were safe." He watched Holmes fidget and flush, and asked gently, "Will you tell me what that was all about?"

Holmes had to look away from his earnest eyes, and he plucked restlessly at the sheets. "I was . . . ashamed."

"Of what?" Watson questioned with genuine confusion. He thought he might have a guess, but did not want to say it for fear he was correct.

"I forced myself on you," he whispered. "I did not think you would wish to live with me or even see me afterward, so I fled."

"Holmes," Watson said helplessly, passing a hand through his hair and deciding how best to continue the conversation. "What do you actually remember of that night?"

Holmes told him what little he remembered, then what he'd deduced about the situation when he woke up the following morning. Watson carefully kept his expression neutral, even as he was horrified at the conclusions Holmes had reached that seemingly fit the evidence perfectly. But at least his own guess for Holmes' shame was completely wrong, which gave him some hope.

When Holmes finished his recital, Watson said, "I have one word for you: Norbury."

Holmes frowned.

"Holmes, I must apologize. I didn't realize you were that drunk. I thought . . ."

"I believe you are starting the story at the end again," Holmes said peevishly.

Watson heaved a sigh and started over. "Holmes, when I fell on top of you, I kissed you. I'd wanted to for a while, and it seemed the perfect chance -if you objected, I could blame it on the drinks. You didn't object. We went to your bedroom, and yes, you were on top... because I wanted you to be. If I realized you were so drunk you wouldn't remember, I wouldn't have let it go so far, so there would be no misunderstanding."

He watched Holmes blanch and reached out to grasp his hand reassuringly. Holmes clung to it with both hands as he tried to process what Watson had said. So he hadn't . . ? Watson had wanted . . ? It was almost too much to bear after the desperation and privation of the previous weeks. "I have been a fool," he said miserably.

"Perhaps, but you are my fool." Watson sat on the edge of the bed and kissed him gently. He rested his forehead against Holmes' and said, "Just promise me you won't go running off like that again."

"Not like that," Holmes agreed. "But if there's a case, I cannot guarantee anything."

"I knew that already," Watson said with a rueful smile. He sat up and made to stand up, but Holmes grabbed his wrist to keep him there. "It's all right, I'll be right back. I just need to ask Mrs. Hudson to send up more broth for you and some tea for me."

Holmes nodded and released his wrist reluctantly. When Mrs. Hudson had come and gone, Watson sat beside Holmes on the bed and let Holmes curl up against him, and ran his fingers through his dark hair. They talked quietly until Holmes needed to sleep again; Watson remained beside him, their bodies touching in half a dozen places, and hoped against hope that this rough beginning would not predict the course of their entire relationship.


End file.
